Okay I wrote this because my friend asked me to. I rated it T because I like swearing and sex. That's all. I strongly advise that no-one reads this cos it's a bit rubbish.
At night, the air in the city smells of hot, burning life. And he opens the black taxi cab door for me, like a gentleman. That's why I like him. He's a gentleman, an English boy, through and through. And he holds out his hand, but I don't take it. I avert my eyes and get out of the car. My heels dangerously high and loud against the wet stone pavement. Midnight black Alexander McQueen with gracefully curving heels. I try not to wobble, because I don't want him to hold his hand out to me again. Together, we walk to the front steps of my four story London townhouse, looming above us, all off-white stone and creamish wrought iron balconies. I turn away from him, one foot already on the step above.
"Lorraine?" He says. I don't like the way he says my name, his public school accent twisting my own name into something I barely recognise. I can't remember if he was Eton or Harrow, but either way, he was born and bred to do this. Born to be Cambridge educated and drive a Jaguar to his job in The City, and go shooting on his daddy's estate at the weekends.
"Yeah?" My own accent is something more than just scummy in comparison. But I turn around to look at him confidently, because I'm his equal. And I'm smiling a little.
"Goodnight, and thank you for tonight" he says.
"Yeah, it's been great" I lie. And then, he's leaning forwards a little. And I kiss him, because he wants me to, and because I don't want to hurt him. We kiss, quickly. My eyes closed. Trying to clear my wine-blurred mind. Trying to think straight. And then I'm pulling away and his eyes are flickering open. I suddenly notice that his eyelashes are very pale. And I can see it in his eyes, the way he looks at me. He's begging me, in his polite, quiet, English way, to spend the night with him. How long have we been dating now? Three weeks? And I've always just kissed him goodnight and left him on the doorstep. For a fraction of a second, I think about inviting him in. But I know I won't. "I better go, I've got an early call from my people in Beijing tomorrow, see you" I murmur. I lie, because lying is easy. And I turn away, reaching for my keys, and unlocking the door, painted an immaculate glossy black. I open the door a crack, leaning against it. The marble hallway is as dark as the midnight streets, and maybe a little colder. And I'm turning and digging my nails into my palms, desperately stopping that smile from slipping from my lips. And then, with a huge effort, I smile at him one last time.
"Night-" he says. Silently, I close the door behind myself.
I stand on my very tip toes. My feet bare, as though I were a child again. And I'm wobbling a little. Drunk and tied and drunk. And tired. I've been drinking fine, expensive red wine for hours. Until I feel a little sick, vague waves of nausea washing over me. I can taste his breath, as though it's sticking to my tongue, to the roof of my mouth. Mixing with the sickly sweet red wine, oddly foreign. And now I'm home alone, and the balls of my feet burn onto the cold icy tiles. I twist the tap. Cold metal, my cool palm. And I sit on the white tiled floor, listening to the hot water slapping onto the cold ceramic bathtub. And I let the water run deep. Until the air is thick with steam and I can taste hot water vapour in my lungs, clogging up my nose. Making my skin wriggle into goosebumps. And I slowly get undressed. Wriggling, muscles in my shoulders burning as I try to unzip my dress. Skin-tight Hervé Léger is not designed for girls who go home alone. But I unzip it myself, in the end. And I pull it down, over my hips. Tiny black dress falling to the floor. Leaving me in my underwear. I don't bother hanging it up, I just leave it on the tiles, looking oddly forlorn. Folds of clingy black fabric, still smelling of my Viktor and Rolf perfume. Sharp. I glance up, and for an instant I catch sight of myself in the full length mirror on the other side of the room. But I quickly avert my eyes and start to run a little cold water into the bath. Watching the new, clearer, colder water mix with the hot. Swirling. And then I unclasp my bra. And my necklace, my chest feeling slightly too light without it. As though I can suddenly breathe again. I hold it in the palm of my hand for an instant, looking down at it. A heavy, silver Cartier panther. Fifteen thousand pounds in the cool palm of my hand. Blue sapphire eyes, ice-like diamonds making up the body of the cat, glittering in the hot light. I sigh, and remember that he bought it for me. His face, eager to please, doting, flickering in front of my vision for a fraction of a second, blurred. By time or by the alcohol I'd drunk. I don't know. But I know that I haven't drunk enough, I didn't invite him in because, deep down, I knew that I wasn't drunk enough to sleep with him. What does that make me? Cold, incapable of love? Maybe I'm as stone cold as the tiles I'm standing on. Colder than the diamond panther in my palm. Have I always been incapable of feeling what I'm supposed to feel? As though something is broken inside me. Faulty, damaged goods.
And I leave the necklace on the side of the sink. Cold ceramic against cold diamonds under my cold skin. I remind myself to breathe normally. I could tie up my hair. But I don't bother, I just run my fingers loosely through my carefully sculptured, platinum blonde curls. Tossing it all back, over my shoulders. I reach into the bath with the very tips of my fingers. Testing the water. I wriggle out of my underwear. And get into the bath.
The water feels oddly thick, as though it were deliciously hot treacle. Enveloping my body under the slightly cloudy surface. I lean back, letting the water lap at my skin. Letting the ends of my hair tumble into the water, spreading out like hot blonde clouds. I raise a wet hand, and sweep it out of my face. Drops of hot water, one on my lips, and another on my cheek, and dozen in my hair. Maybe smudging at my makeup a little. Maybe I should've taken it off before I got in the bath, but I don't care. The roots of my hair darker now, glossy with sweat. Because the water is a little too hot. I sigh, and I sink a fraction lower into the water. And I close my eyes.
And suddenly, I'm sixteen again. And my best friend, she's beautiful. All straight dark hair framing her thin face, and her hazel eyes are a little too big. And she's got long, dark eyelashes and pale skin. And a quick smile and a careless laugh. One or two, impossibly pale, freckles dotting across her nose. Nail varnish a little chipped, mascara a little smudged, her hair not quite immaculate. I think her pale lipstick is a little smudged too. I don't know. I know the exact shade of lipstick she's wearing though, because I was with her when she chose it. Carefully drawing little lines on the back of her hand, testing the colours before slipping it into her handbag. I can remember how my heart pounded, how my palms sweated. How I was convinced we'd get caught. But we didn't, of course, girls like her don't get caught. Not ever.
"Lo? Are you even listening to me?"
"I...yeah" I take the cigarette that Evie is holding out to me. Thin, hand rolled. I watch her as she flicks carelessly at her cheap plastic lighter with her thumb. Lighting up. And then she passes it to me. Her hazel eyes don't burn into mine anyone, she doesn't need to silently dare me to light the cigarette and take a long drag. Now, she knows that I'll smoke it. No hesitation, no suppressed coughs or burning eyes. And right now, I need the lulling calm of a nicotine hit. So I light up. Silently wishing that she would light it for me, just like she used to. And I'm holding the cigarette a little too tightly between my trembling lips, flicking at the lighter. Bursting into flame. And I take a drag, passing her lighter back to her with an awkward jerk of my head. Feeling the burning smoke, tearing at my lungs. And I'm holding the cigarette between my trembling thumb and first finger. Pulling it from between my lips, and watching how the end burns bright for a fraction of a second. Until I don't think I can keep the smoke in my chest any longer. And I exhale. Closing my eyes, vile smelling smoke twisting around my mouth, over my tongue.
"You look like you needed that" she grins, her voice a little blurred because she's only moving half of her mouth. Because she's still holding her cigarette loosely between her lips. Leaving a tiny imprint of lipstick on the cheap cigarette papers. I shrug, crossing my arms leaning back against the rough brick wall opposite to her, careful not to get half-dried chewing-gum stuck to the back of my navy blue school blazer. I try very hard not to look at her, because she's tilting her chin down, trying to catch my eye. She can tell something is wrong. "You look like you need a drink later too."
"Yeah, okay" I smile, nodding happily. "I'm sorry, I'm just...I don't know. I'm alright now." I shake my head. A drag of my cigarette, I cough a little. And I can feel the nicotine hit sending my flesh crawling, as though she literally gets under my skin. Messing everything inside me up.
"Was English without me really that bad?" she jokes, smoke curling through her words and making them visible, hanging for a fraction of a second in the humid air between us. I pause for a moment, and then I reply.
"I still can't believe you wagged off it, we had to go in pairs and I was on my own like a fucking loser. Miss had to pair me" I try not to sound possessive, clingy. I know she'd hate that.
"Who did you go with?" She's smiling properly now. Teasing me, because she already knows that I'd been partnered with someone I didn't like. Or, more accurately, who she didn't like.
"Taylor" I shrug. She sniggers.
"Oh yeah, I bet she'd love to go with you, she's so gay" she rolls her eyes. And take a drag of her cigarette. She doesn't watch as something inside me slowly dies. Maybe her words are killing me. Or maybe they're silencing the thoughts twisting me up inside. I take a drag of my cigarette and wish to god that I was drunk.
"Evie, you can be such a bitch" I say softly, careful to keep an accusatory note out of my voice. And I'm not looking at her. Instead, I keep eyes fixed on my shoes and the cigarette butts scattered around our feet.
"Oh and you're so fucking nice aren't you Lo, what, you fancy her?" her voice is suddenly cold, and I know that she's flicking the ash from the end of her cigarette in quick, tiny movements. Annoyed. Maybe even angry.
"Fuck off. I'm just pissed that you left me on my own." I shrug. And I flick the ash away from the end of my cigarette too, mirroring, mimicking her movements. I can feel the tension between us slowly break down.
"Do I look like I give a fuck about English GCSE? Anyway, you could've wagged off with me and Oscar, it would've been fun." She shrugs, leaning against the wall opposite, watching me as I smoke. But suddenly my breath seems to catch in my throat. I try my hardest not to cough. Not to let my eyes water as I choke on the smoke slipping through my lips.
"Oscar?" I say his name. Gasp it almost as I attempt to catch my breath. She raises one eyebrow.
"Yeah, what about him?"
"Nothing, nothing. Nothing. It's just the English exam's in a week. Or less. Or some shit. And you're wagging off to screw Oscar?" I attempt to keep my tone careless. The exam is in precisely four days. It makes my heart hammer with nerves just thinking about it. And it makes my heart beat harder thinking about Oscar holding her close. His hands on her body. I feel sick just at the thought. But I can't ever let her know that.
"What did you do that's so damn important then?"
"We read Othello"
"What's that?"
For a fraction of a second, I think about telling her what the play is about. But then I think better of it, and I just touch my tongue to my lips and look down at the concrete. And I say "fuck knows. I don't think it's English though." Careful to keep my voice something like careless. A cheap imitation of her casual tone. I'm not sure if it works.
"Oh." She says. There's silence. Between us. Tension that I created. Silently, I hate myself. Because there's a lot of stuff I should be saying, but I'm not saying any of it. And I know that I won't ever say any of it. So I listen to her take a deep breath in as she takes a drag of her cigarette, and I keep myself safe through silence. And then, somewhere, a door slams. A suited figure steps out onto the concrete school yard. I gasp a little.
"Shit! That's Mr Byrne!" I say, hurriedly. Trying too hard to keep my voice cool. As though it's just a general observation, and I don't care that he might catch us smoking. I do care though.
"Oh for god's sake" She hisses through her teeth. Blowing out another mouthful of smoke.
And suddenly she's spitting her cigarette out from between her lips, and unobtrusively treading on the glowing end, all in one rapid, fluid movement. I mimic her. And she looks at me. I look at her. A shadow of a grin flies across her lips. And together, we run.
And I open my eyes. I blink my blurred eyes, blurred through the hot steam filling the bathroom. And bright tears. I look up to the ceiling. With the back of my hand, I wipe away the tears inexplicably falling over my cheeks. And I lean back, until I can feel my hair become hot, heavy with water. Tickling at the back of my neck, sending a slow shiver down my spine. I breathe quickly. My ears under water now, hot water crashing against my earrings. More Cartier. Price On Application. God. Price On Application, and now I'm crying silently, sobbing. My eyes squeezed closed, my tears mixing with the hot bath water. And I'm wishing, praying to something I will never believe in. Fighting a war I'm always going to lose.